


spider, sylvia plath

by cicadas



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/F, Idiots in Love, MJ is a Sweetheart, Reader-Insert, Reading Aloud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: MJ bumps your shoulder with hers, so you bump back, adding a bit too much force that bowls her over onto the grass. She looks up at you, giggling. The sun makes her seem like she’s glowing, and her eyes are crinkled up in a smile that not many get to see. She’s beautiful.





	spider, sylvia plath

_“Anansi, black busybody of the folktales,_  
_You scuttle out on impulse_  
_Blunt in self-interest_  
_As a sledge hammer, as a man's bunched fist,_  
_Yet of devils the cleverest_  
_To get your carousals told:_  
_You spun the cosmic web: you squint from center field.”_

The sun beams down on your face as you lie on the grass, head resting on MJ’s thighs as she reads out loud from a book that looks like it’s seen better days. You turn your head to face her, her head elevated by the arm she’s tucked under it.

“I like that. Cosmic web.” You muse, watching the shadows of clouds dance across her face.

“Getting philosophical?” She says, gently swatting your head with the open book. You snort and roll off her so you can sit up.

“Nah, I’ll leave that to you. I just like the phrasing. Makes me think of a web made of stars,” You reach down to pluck out a handful of grass and sprinkle it onto her shirt. “Like that theory that we’re all made of stardust.”

“That’s been confirmed.” MJ says simply, sitting up - ruining your grass-pile in the process. “You’re a star.”

“See? You don’t have to pay thousands to name a star. You’ve got me, right here.” You say, gesturing to yourself.

“Mhm,” MJ shuffles over so your shoulders are touching - her favourite way to say ‘I love being with you’. She’s not big on PDA or flirty touching, but just being close as a comfort is the best thing with her. Most of the time she’ll use your lap as prime reading position, lying down and holding the book up high. “I’m gonna name you Plato.”

“M! You are not naming me after an old, white, Greek guy. Besides, I already have a name!”

MJ bumps your shoulder with hers, so you bump back, adding a bit too much force that bowls her over onto the grass. She looks up at you, giggling. The sun makes her seem like she’s glowing, and her eyes are crinkled up in a smile that not many get to see. She’s beautiful. You lean over her and place a tiny kiss in the middle of her forehead, then sit up so you can grab at some more grass and sprinkle it over her head.

Just like you thought she would, she starts swatting at her face, shouting, “You shit! Oh my God you do this every time, I’m going to kill you!”

You scramble to your feet, breaking out into a sprint that lasts for five whole seconds before MJ’s caught you, throwing her full body at you so you both collapse onto the hard dirt of the field, her still cursing and you giggling like an idiot. You reach up to brush her hair to the side so you can see her eyes and try to keep your face serious as you meet her eyes, hard set and unamused (though you know she loves your dumb antics).

You try to for innocent and blink up at her through your eyelashes. “Truce?”

MJ just sighs and stands to help you up. “Come on, doofus. We haven’t finished the poem.”

“Last summer I came upon your Spanish cousin?” You recite - she’d leant you the book a few weeks ago when you enquired about her love of Sylvia Plath - and her eyes go wide, mouth dropping open as if you’ve just said something astounding. You finish walking back to your place on the grass and sit down, watching MJ’s face turn from surprise to fondness, dark eyes meeting yours through long eyelashes.

“I’m keeping you.” Is all she says. The words are as warm as the sun on your skin.

She re-opens the book, flicks back to the right page, and begins to read.

_“Last summer I came upon your Spanish cousin,_  
_Notable robber baron,_  
_Behind a goatherd's hut:_  
_Near his small stonehenge above the ants' route,_  
_One-third ant-size, a leggy spot,_  
_He tripped an ant with a rope_  
_Scarcely visible. About and about the slope”_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
> poem: spider by sylvia plath


End file.
